


Better Than the Stars

by tekhnicolor



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekhnicolor/pseuds/tekhnicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time when he kisses her, he takes his time. It’s slow and careful, and feels like he’s searching for something.</p><p>It worries her that perhaps this is his way of saying goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a ten/rose fairy tale AU, but it turned into something more angsty and I just ran with it. Un-beta'ed. It was more of an experiment in writing styles than anything else, and I'm not sure I like it. :/

It's raining when she hears it the first time, a wheezing, whooshing sound that fades in and out like a series of breaths.

She doesn’t know then about the days she won’t be able to fall asleep without that sound.

She doesn’t know then about the man and the box and the stories and the war and the _stars._

 

~

She's tired of sitting indoors, reading old books on clothes and table manners and what to say when, and when she snatches her shawl from its hanger and rushes out the doors with no more than a backwards glance, she's grateful the rain drowns out any sound of her mother shouting after her.

The gardens are a twisted labyrinth of foliage behind the castle, dark vines and looming willow trees and roses heavy with last night's dew, sprawling greenery stretching for miles and miles. Her blonde hair flattens almost instantly under the barrage of raindrops, but she doesn't mind. The world smells crisp and cold and it's so much better than staying inside all day. Hearing the sound once more, she follows it, kicks off her shoes and scrambles barefoot over an overgrown wall and down a winding path in a manner she's certain her mother would denounce as entirely immodest. But there in a clearing under a willow is the strangest sight she's ever seen.

A box. Blue as the summer sky. With a faint gold glow seeping from its windows and a trail of smoke rising from one of its corners. She's never seen anything like it.

She inches forward, holding the hem of her mud-splattered dress off the ground, and reaches out to rest a hand against the blue wood. It's so warm.

The box creaks suddenly, and she jumps back with a squeak. There's a final wheezing noise, the lights in the windows flicker and go out, and a man's head pops suddenly up through one of the doors.

"Hello," he grins, and blinks up at the raindrops splattering across his forehead before squinting at her.

She watches in awe as he clambers out of the box, and the sound of him laughing at her muteness fills her ears like a thousand tinkling bells. He's tall and gangly, his brown hair matted across his forehead and his brown eyes shining like two copper coins. The clothes he's wearing are odd, his coat clings to his narrow frame and he's definitely not from around here, she thinks. Which only makes him all the more interesting, if she's honest.

"You're cold," she hears him saying, and then he's shrugging off his coat, laying it across her shoulders, and she looks down to find gooseflesh having risen across her arms. She watches him scurry about, standing on his tip toes to peer into the blue box and running hands through his already fussed-up hair. The way he moves, even frantic it's so graceful, and she can't help but giggle a little at how cat-like he seems, all big eyes and long legs and hair sticking towards the sky. He's obviously recognized her presence, having lent her his coat, but now he seems oblivious to anything other than the workings of his mind, mumbling incessantly under his breath, pacing back and forth, stopping now and again to scratch his nose and furrow his brow at his box, as though trying to work out some intense puzzle.

When she finally speaks, he freezes mid-step.

"Who are you?" she asks, and silently chastises herself for being so easily mesmerized. She should have him leave the grounds, really. He oughtn't be here, especially not alone with her and maybe she should just leave and oh, she isn't even wearing any shoes. But there's something about this man's eyes, something about how wreathed in mystery he and his box are, that captivates her, keeps her rooted to the ground like one of the surrounding trees. _Who is he?_

"The Doctor," he says, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, and before she has a chance to respond, he goes on. "Just the Doctor. Though John Smith, occasionally, if you prefer."

"I don't." She doesn't. 'The Doctor' has just the right amount of magic to it, and she's always believed names possessed little bits of their own magic.

"Good," he says, eyes sparkling, and nods. "Now, what do you know about space-time?"

 

~

She learns that his box is a ship. Not a regular one that sails on the sea from country to country, but one that travels through the sky. A ‘space ship,’ she remembers him calling it, and she wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t opened the doors and shown her himself.

“It’s beautiful,” she gasps, still breathing heavily after helping him push the box into its proper standing position.

He frowns a little, looks at his feet. “It’s broken,” he sighs. “Dying.”

“Oh. Is it really –“

“Alive? Yes. Or … it _was._ ”

She doesn’t know what to do so she takes his hand in hers, and the way his eyes light up and he smiles at her makes warmth flood her chest.

He tugs on her hand, pulling her with him through the doors, and gives her a full tour anyway. There’s golden light spilling from every corner and _where is it coming from_ and she doesn’t really care, because next thing she knows he’s pulled her into a room so big it has a river in it that disappears into the horizon.

The way he skips from room to room, his ongoing stream of chatter filling the air, the way he bounds down the halls and sweeps open doors, watches her with bated breath as she takes in everything he shows her – he seems so young, so innocent, so full of life and joy and this contagious childlike wonder and restlessness she knows oh so well. When she meets his eyes however, there is something else there, hidden just behind the bubbling enthusiasm, and even his excited words are tinged with moments of sadness. She wants to ask him, wants to know who he really is and where he’s from and what it is he’s running from because really everyone’s running from _something,_ but this is all so new, and the ship … it’s bigger on the inside and when she says so, he grins so wide she can't help but laugh and dance with him around what he keeps calling the ‘console.’

He tells her that he’s from the stars, that he’s been traveling for a long time now and his ship’s growing very, very old. He’d like it very much if he could keep it here until it feels alright again, if it – _she_ – ever does.

When she asks him what he’ll do if she doesn’t, he shrugs nonchalantly, but his hand around hers tightens and she knows he’s more afraid than he lets on. The thought breaks her heart, for some reason.

“I’ll take you,” he says suddenly, and her heart jumps in her chest.

“Where?” she asks.

“Anywhere! When she’s better, we can go … we can go anywhere. To the stars. If you like.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. Then he cocks his head to the side. “What’s your name?”

“Rose,” she tells him, laughing a little. “Rose Tyler.”

She can't help thinking that she doesn’t even know him.

 

~

She visits the Doctor and his box often, running from her studies and the dreariness of royal life to listen to his stories. Some days he stays with his box – the TARDIS, he calls it – tinkering here and there with its machinery or stretching out under the willow tree to take a break from the work. But other days he takes her on long walks. She hasn’t spent much time outside of the castle and its gardens, but he learns the lay of the land so quickly it seems he’s lived here all his life, and he takes her outside the gardens, down long paths and through doors that lead to fields and little rivers and clearings in the woods.

She listens intently to every story he tells her, trying desperately to retain the various names and lists of facts and figures he frequently rattles off. She tells him about herself, about her house and life and about the things she wishes she could do.

“I used to live like that,” he comments one day, while they walk side by side through an old grove, clasped hands swinging between them. It’s become a habit of theirs now, holding hands. It almost feels strange when she’s with him and they aren’t touching. Which is really probably not entirely appropriate if she thinks of it, at least if she thinks of it the way her mother would think of it, but these days she’s beginning to care less and less about what her mother thinks of propriety and such.

“Like what?” She’s distracted by the assortment of leaves caught in his hair, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I used to live like that,” he repeats. “In a house I didn’t want to be in, with people I didn’t want to be with, telling me I wouldn’t make anything of myself unless I did exactly what they did.” He tugs at his earlobe with his free hand. “Bit stuffy really. Stubborn. More stubborn than me, if you can believe it. Stuck up. _Boring._ ” His mouth curls around the last word like it tastes funny. “So I know what you mean.”

“What did you do?” she asks, curious, because he never talks about himself, not about his background at least.

He sniffs. “Oh, I ran away. Not that that’s always the best idea. In your case – ah … I don’t know. Maybe you could, er, run away, that is.” He’s awkward suddenly, looking away from her and scratching the back of his head. “Wouldn’t want people to miss you though,” he finishes, quieter.

That night, as she lies in her empty room under piles of thick blankets and the rain beats wearily against her window, she thinks about what he says, about what he says and about what he _means_ and about whether or not those two things are ever the same when it comes to him.

 

~

She doesn’t _really_ know him, not who his family is or where he’s from, but slowly she’s learning about the things he loves. Science, long, ridiculous-sounding terms she can't remember no matter how hard she tries, people, stories, and the _stars._

He’s shy today, avoiding her eyes as he guides her through the TARDIS corridors, his hand in hers shaking just a little. He brings her to an empty room and lets her go for a moment to lay the blanket he’s been carrying under his arm across the middle of the floor. She sits when he does, confused but trusting in him to have a reason, and listens to him whisper something to his ship in another language. When he lies back against the blanket, she follows.

The lights turn off. And there are his beloved stars. Thousands upon thousands of them. Probably millions. She turns to tell him how lovely they are but he’s already looking at her when she does, and in the dim starlight she can make out the blush that creeps onto his cheeks as he turns away, see the darkening of his eyes before he closes them.

She finds his hand again and his long fingers curl around hers almost instinctively, she thinks.

She can't find words, doesn’t have the faintest idea what to say next, and so she lies next to him in silence, breathing shallowly, watching the dance of stars above her head with growing awe.

And then he’s turning on his side to face her, guiding her hand to the space over his heart. She mimics the movement, feeling the race of his pulse beneath her fingertips. He slides her hand suddenly to the other side of his chest and … _what?_ It’s there too, the skittering beat of a heart, the flutter of a pulse that shouldn’t be there. She moves her hand back to the other side of his chest, then back again.

“How …”

“Here,” he says, so, _so_ quietly, turning again onto his back and pointing at a particular orange-coloured star in the sky. “That’s my home.”

She’s lying on her side still, hand sprawled across his chest, and his movement caused her head to come to rest at the juncture of his shoulder and chest. She turns it slightly, looking up into the night sky, following the direction he’s pointing. The orange star is so clear now that she wonders how she missed it before, burning like a brilliant fire in the darkness.

“What’s it called?” she asks, because she has to know this, at least, has to know the name of the place he calls home.

He closes his eyes again, and she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he inhales deeply and exhales. “Gallifrey.” The word sounds almost like a prayer on his tongue. His hand comes to rest atop her own, her breath catching as his thumb brushes mechanically over his wrist. “But I can't go back now,” he tells her.

“Why? What happened?” Her voice is a near squeak. She forces her breath back to its regular rhythm, sure that the pulse at her wrist is enough on its own to give away what she’s feeling right now. His fingers slip through her own and her eyes fall closed.

He turns his head towards her and dips it a little, enough so that his nose is pressed against the top of her head. The thumb at her wrist continues its steady cadence. “I never quite belonged there,” he breathes into her hair. “People don’t like you when you’re different. And now I’ve run away and, well, I don’t think there’s really anywhere for me to go back to anyway.”

She curls closer to him, letting her fingers close around the material of his shirt and savoring the soft hum he releases against her hair when she does. “I'm sorry,” she whispers, and suddenly she isn’t nervous anymore. Only determined. He’s shy enough now for the both of them, his hand on hers trembling lightly and his breath carefully timed, and she won’t let his heart break, not today, not while it’s under her care. “It’ll always be your home,” she says, brushing her thumb over his. His hand freezes for a moment, and she holds her breath, hoping she hasn’t done anything to scare him away. He’s difficult to understand sometimes, so _alien_ and in truth it’s so very beautiful. She has to hold back a sigh of relief when his thumb settles back into its easy rhythm. “S’okay if you have to say goodbye though. The memory will still be there, that’s what’s important. You can keep it alive that way, that’s what my father used to tell me.” She buries her nose into his chest, smiling sadly at the recollection. “And you can find new homes. The universe is big, remember? You said that. Just ‘cause you move around a lot doesn’t mean you can't have a home, it just means you can have homes everywhere.”

He slides his hand from hers and for a moment she is afraid he’s pulling away, but then he’s wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer to him, smoothing a hand across her back and letting his other hand rest atop hers. She can't keep herself from snuggling into his side, not that she tries.

“I’ll stay with you,” she continues, when they’ve settled against each other, their movements finally stilling. It feels like a confession, and his potential responses terrify her.

All he says though, is, “How long?”

And when she says _forever_ she means it with every beat of her single heart.

It takes longer than it should for her to recognize the shaking of his body as sobbing, the soft noises he makes against her hair as him being unable to hold back tears.

She clutches him to her like she can press happiness back into him, so tightly.

It’s the first night she doesn’t go home.

 

~

He’s quiet throughout the next few days, but he holds her hand tighter and more often, and when she meets his eyes, he smiles at her so softly her stomach is perpetually doing flips.

She thinks he might be trying to say thank you.

 

~

And there are days when he yanks her behind him on grand adventures, filling her head with colorful descriptions of places she can only dream of, but there are also days when he’s far away, when he’s content to simply sit with her in silence, watching the clouds and trailing off in the middle of his sentences with a distant look on his face.

Today is one of the latter days, and they sit together on the ground, their backs against the TARDIS, until the blueness of the sky fades to black and she falls asleep on his shoulder.

She wakes up in a room she’s never seen before, tucked away under a mountain of dark sheets and she’s frightened, until she sees his silhouetted form curled into a large chair in the corner of the room, a small blanket covering him up to his waist.

She lets herself drift off to sleep again, and in the morning she chastises him for not sending her home, complains that her mother will be furious and he should have woken her up but really she doesn’t mind it, spending the night in his room. And he knows she doesn’t mind, rubbing the back of his neck and ducking his head to hide the slow smile that he can't hold back. He takes her scolding silently though, and they both know it’s more of a game. He’ll do it again – let her fall asleep with him, carry her to his bed – the next time he can. Secretly, she only wishes he’d crawl in next to her.

She doesn’t know when he started feeling so like home.

 

~

The TARDIS starts to work again. He’s ecstatic.

She worries he'll forget about her.

 

~

One afternoon they eat lunch together, sitting side by side on a crumbling wall as the sun sets in fractals of gold before them.

He bumps shoulders with her playfully, and there’s a moment when his eyes flick to her lips and her breath catches.

 

~

He gives her his coat when she's cold, and she starts forgetting to wear warm clothes for that reason alone. He knows, and she knows he knows, but it's another game they like to play while they dance around the serious topics.

They discover a pond on a Saturday, with ducks and turtles and little fish that nibble at their toes when they stand still for too long. He's wearing jeans today, rolled up in an unsuccessful attempt to keep them dry, and a long-sleeved shirt. He lent her a pair of billowy pants and a shirt from the TARDIS closets, both now thoroughly soaked, and she loves how much lighter they are than the heavy dresses she usually wears.

She drops his coat in the pond, on accident.

He groans and lets his head fall back. “Rose, I didn’t …”

"Sorry?"

"I think the fish are eating it!" He bends and draws it from the water, shooting Rose a dismal look before tossing it onto the land.

She covers her mouth with her hand to suppress a laugh.

"What?" he squeaks. "Nothing ... nothing is funny about this, Miss Rose Tyler." He scrunches his nose at her, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Coat-ruiner.”

" _Coat-ruiner?_ Really? That's what you come up with?"

He sniffs. "Give me time. I'll come up with something better."

She has something serious she needs to tell him, and now is definitely not the time, but, "You can go, you know. I mean, if you don't want me to travel with you, that's alright. You don't have to stay with me. I know you probably have all kinds of important things to do and I wouldn't want to keep you from that."

"Can I?"

"What?"

"Can I stay ... with you?"

Her heart misses a beat. "Would you want to?"

"Yes."

The first time he kisses her, he tastes like fish and pond water.

She isn’t sure what they are now.

Not quite friends, not quite lovers.

He’s everything to her, and nothing.

 

~

The next time she sees him is the time that changes everything.

She hears the whooshing of the TARDIS in the early morning hours, and when she clambers over the wall into their secret garden, he’s just come stumbling out the doors of his ship, clutching at his side and swearing by every god in the sky that he didn’t leave voluntarily.

“She just left!” he says, frantic. “I was doing a bit of tinkering and then – agh!”

It’s then that she notices the blood.

And she’s rushing to him, trying to keep him upright in her arms, smoothing his hair back and fumbling with the door of the TARDIS to get him back inside. There’s a sick bay somewhere, she knows. He’s taken her there before to take care of a few minor cuts and scrapes. But this, this is nothing minor.

There’s so much blood, she can't bear to look.

In the sick bay, her fingers shake over the buttons of his shirt before half-tearing the buttons apart. There’s a gash in his side and she follows the directions the TARDIS gives her to help him as best she can, muttering under her breath at his downright stupidity. She’ll kill him, she will, if he doesn’t make it through this alive.

When the initial panic is over, she sits bedside, drops her head to the bed next to him and holds his hand with both of hers.

“There’s a war,” he says, his voice waking her from a fitful sleep.

“No, go to sleep. You’re alright.”

“No, Rose, there’s a war.”

“Stop it,” she says. He’s delirious, too tired to think straight.

“It’s Gallifrey,” he continues. “I have to go.”

“No.” And there are tears in her eyes now, real, terrible tears. Because he’s serious about this war, about having to leave. “No, you don’t.”

“People will die, if I don’t.” He holds her hand in his lap, playing with her fingers. “Everyone will. _You._ ” The way he looks at her makes her heart clench.

She wishes she was still at home in her own bed, dreaming about stars and adventures and other silly notions that didn’t hurt, not like this.

“Why does it have to be you?”

“Because,” and there’s a flash of anger in his eyes, vibrant as flame, before he smiles again, “if I don’t, no one else will.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No. No, it really isn’t.”

They’re both silent for a moment.

“Come here.” He tugs lightly on her hand, wincing slightly and gritting his teeth as he moves to make room on the narrow bed. She climbs in next to him, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

They stay that way for a long time.

 

~

"When I was little –“ It’s the middle of the night, and her legs are tangled through his, his fingers tracing soft, winding shapes across the skin of her shoulder where he’s nudged her dress down – "I remember a stranger visited the castle once. Said he was a prince from some faraway land.” She takes advantage of his shirt being unbuttoned, running her fingers through the smattering of hair on her chest and sighing when she feels him quiver against her. “Mum invited him for supper — of course she fawned over him like he was her own son — but he told the most brilliant stories. And I remember, well I don't remember them all but one of them was about a boy who got caught in the stars, who fell … fell in love with this girl who was brave enough to travel to each of the four corners of the earth and bring back the right pieces to make a ladder to help him down."

He nuzzled his nose against her temple, still half asleep. "And did she?"

"She did. And then he didn't have the stars anymore, not the way he used to, but he had her and that was better I s'pose."

"Mm, that's nice."

"It's kind of a silly story, I know, but —"

She felt his lips replace his nose, his tongue come out to taste her skin. "I don't think it's silly."

"Oh."

"And how did it end, this story?"

"Well,” she tries for the right words, distracted by his tongue’s leisurely journey down her neck. “It's a bit sad actually."

He freezes, tongue and hand and breath stilling entirely. "Is it?"

She nods. "He had to go off and fight in a war, to keep everyone safe, and he promised he’d come back for her afterwards. So they could run away, together ..." She trails off.

"Does he ...” and he’s fully awake now, masking his concern with curiosity. “Does he come back?"

"The prince didn't know. Do you know, Doctor?” she has to ask. “Do you know if he ever comes back?"

"No."

"Oh." She exhales. After a while, his fingers continue drawing patterns on her shoulder. "Well, before the prince left, he told me and mum something else. He kissed my hand and he said that it didn't matter whether or not he knew if the prince had ever come back, 'cause the lesson in the story is hope. That you should always hope. And if you have hope, you'll always be okay." She pauses, swallows shakily. "We've got hope, haven't we, Doctor?"

The room is silent for what feels like centuries. He turns to her.

"Heaps of it.” He takes her face between his hands. “And we'll always be okay ... Rose Tyler."

This time when he kisses her, he takes his time. It’s slow and careful, and feels like he’s searching for something.

It worries her that perhaps this is his way of saying goodbye.

 

~

One day she finds out he’s going to change.

He’s angry. His irises are wreathed with red fire and shadows long kept secret dance across his face.

At first it’s a silent anger, one he manages to suppress every time it nearly boils over.

“I could do so much more.”

But the darkness comes.

The whitest flame. A fire so hot it almost feels cold.

She jumps when he shoves the books off the desk.

_“But it’s not fair!”_

“Doctor …” He turns on her, the silhouette of his coat whirling behind him, and he seems taller suddenly, a looming figure above her. He’s always been erratic, mercurial, volatile even, but when she meets his eyes, she sees something else in them, behind the anger. This is pain. This hurts.

And suddenly she knows what to do.

She takes a shaky breath and steps towards him, into his world, into the vortex, into the fire and the ghosts and the gravel and the dark … and she holds him.

Then comes the ash.

After a while, his body sags against hers, and she can hear his mumbled apologies in her ear.

“I don’t want to go,” he confesses.

She holds him tighter. “I’ve got you.”

 _So this is what it feels like,_ she realizes, _when a heart breaks._

 

~

She stays with him that night, and she remembers the gangly, scatterbrained stranger she'd first met in the rain so long ago. It’s so easy to say hello. Goodbyes are the tricky part.

_It’s okay if you have to say goodbye though. The memory will still be there, that’s what’s important. You can keep it alive that way._

He finds her hand and winds his fingers through it for the last time. She wonders if when he’s gone she’ll still reach out for this hand when she’s frightened.

_How long?_

_Forever._

He'll take her to see Gallifrey one day, he promises.

_Can I? Can I stay … with you?_

To Barcelona, for the dogs with no noses.

_Would you want to?_

21st century London, for the chips.

_Yes._

The end of time. The beginning. Anywhere and anywhen she likes. It’s better with two, he tells her. And they’re running out of ways to say _‘I love you’_ with entirely different words.

But for now, they have this. The humming of the TARDIS and the shortness of breath, the comfort of having a hand to hold, and there, just outside those doors, the stars.

 

~

_That’s my home._

_What’s it called? she asks, because she has to know this, at least, has to know the name of the place he calls home. Because names have their own kind of magic. Because they matter._

_(Her name was Rose.)_

 

 

~

The TARDIS is quiet without her. She misses her too, he understands. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the dull throbbing in his hearts.

Behind him is the world he loves, the woman he gave his life to. Before him is a war he knows he won't win.

There's just one last stop to make before he goes.

 

~

He digs through the TARDIS closets until he finds the right attire, and it doesn't take him long to set the coordinates and be on his way.

He knows them by heart.

There's a familiar castle, and the face of a golden-haired girl smiling brightly at him as he bows and takes her hand.

He thinks it will be hard, to see her like this, and it is, it really is. But as her eyes widen at his words, he slowly finds himself grinning like a child again, grand stories and tales spilling from his lips as though he can't keep them from her.

Reminds him of the first day he met her, when he’d shown her the TARDIS and her eyes lit up every room.

Her favorite is of a boy who was lonely even among the stars, a boy who fell in love with a girl who was brave enough, and kind enough, to save him. He knows it by heart, knows the beauty and tragedy of loving too much and loving too deeply things that are impermanent. _And perhaps some things do last forever._ He knows the girl, knows exactly what she looked like from her head to her toes, which dresses were her favorites, how she hated to wear shoes, even in the rain, the way she always knew just what to say when the moments of darkness took him. He knows the story as if it were his own, and he knows too that it doesn't have an ending, because the best stories never do, and that its lesson is hope, that if you have hope, yes you might still be frightened and yes you might still be sad but you will always, _always_ be one thing and that one thing is _okay._

And they'll always be okay. The Doctor and Rose Tyler.

Because they have a love that burns with the stars and they know the secret no one ever needs to be told to discover: that all love, no matter how small or fragile or strange, is built on hope.


End file.
